Allison (Hinckley) Munkres

You wake up one morning and peer out the window. The world seems to be exactly the same as you left it last evening. But you know that it has changed. You know that everything is completely different and will never be the same again. Death has a way of enlarging and enhancing all of the “life moments” that we tend to overlook on an ordinary day. Things that are often unseen become seen.

We headed toward Lovell at 4:13 AM on June 9, 2023. The eastern sky was barely beginning to glow with light from a lazy sun. There were already great gray columns of ghost-clouds rising over the Big Horns. They would turn pure white and puff up like mountains of marshmallows in an hour or so. Jupiter and a waning gibbous moon hung in the eastern sky like leftover Christmas ornaments.

When we exited the car at the hospital, we were regaled with a noisy choir of robins and sparrows and finches singing their hearts out. There was no sadness in their songs. They greeted the dawn with a cheerful cacophony of glad tidings. We tried to greet the dawn in that same spirit, but instead of singing, we cried. For the beauty of the earth, for the beauty of the sky. For the beauty of our sister to whom we had been called to say goodbye. Little did we know that she had already taken her leave just moments before we arrived. The birds that were singing so gaily from the treetops were already welcoming her into their great blue sky of heaven.

Allison Hinckley was born in Lovell, Wyoming, on January 3, 1952, to Madge Marchant and DeVere Taggart Hinckley. She was the fifth child born into their family—a plump little redhead who arrived only sixteen months after her older sister had been born. Throughout her young life, she was loved by, hated by, played with, and tormented by that older sister. She learned to scream “bloody murder” whenever she felt that she was being abused. That bloodcurdling scream often landed her in trouble rather than helping to defend herself against further injustice. Exactly as her big sister liked it.

Allison was a perfect little girl who grew and developed like any other perfect little girl. Until she was two years old. On the night of her second birthday, she was badly burned in an accident that changed the course of her life forever. She was lucky to have lived, but she did, because that is what Allison does. She lives! She endures! But the incident left her so traumatized physically, mentally, and emotionally that she had to “start over.” A rebirth, if you will. She had to learn to walk and talk all over again. Even as she accomplished those things for the second time, she was changed. She was left with a speech impediment and a very shy demeanor that caused many people to believe that she was mentally deficient. She was not.

Allison attended school in Cowley from first grade through her graduation from high school. She wasn’t a star pupil, but she did well. She especially loved her music classes. She took piano lessons for many years, sang in the chorus, and played clarinet in the band. One of her favorite memories was playing George Gershwin’s “An American in Paris” on her clarinet at the music festival. She received a superior rating.

In the summertime, Allison hoed beets in the beet fields, washed windows at the school, canned vegetables at the Big Horn Cannery, babysat for several local families, and “dragged a whole bunch of main” on weekend nights in Lovell.

Upon graduation from high school, she enrolled at Northwest Community College in Powell, where she earned her Associate of Arts degree in 1972. Again, her favorite classes were music and theater classes. She participated in several musical productions at the college and counted them as highlights of her life.

After graduating from NWCC, Allison decided that she had had enough of formal education and began seeking employment. She traveled to Texas to work for friends and then to Salt Lake City where she worked odd jobs for a few months. Ultimately, she returned home to Cowley, where she spent a couple of seasons at the sugar factory in Lovell before eventually being employed by Big Horn County as a census taker. She was always proud that she helped map the county when it was mandated that every residence had to have a real physical address.

Allison was a stubborn child. At home she threw temper tantrums and often refused to “do as she was told,” especially when it had to do with washing the dishes or hauling hay to the calves. At school, teachers tried to force her into their own personal molds. They made her write with her right hand when she was left-handed, and other children often made her the target of their jokes. By the time Allison was in her late twenties, the earlier “difficult child behaviors” began to manifest as signs of something more serious. The signs were small ones at first, and easily ignored, but eventually she was diagnosed with a serious and persistent mental illness. This strong, funny, and intelligent woman would spend the rest of her life taking pills to keep herself sane in a world that defined her as insane. It took a few years to regulate the meds to suit her own particular nervous-system needs, but over time that mission was accomplished. It was then that Allison’s
“real life” finally began.

On July 20, 1991, Allison married Jesse “Pony” Munkres. They had a beautiful wedding at Five Springs. Her father walked her across the bridge to meet her beloved, her big brother married them, her younger brother sang “The Rose,” and her mother’s famous milk-chocolate-cake-with-real-fudge-for-frosting towered six layers high on the picnic table. It was a splendid day. The newlyweds made their home in Cowley for the next 32 years, their house and accompanying treehouse becoming something of a landmark in the community. Tourists have even been directed to drive by for a look and a marvel.

Allison was always a kid-magnet. She loved them and they loved her. She and Pony never had children of their own, but Allison knew every birthday and every bit of information about every one of her nieces and nephews for two generations. She was the family phone exchange. If you wanted to know anything about a family member, you just called Allison. And if you ever “just” called Allison or “just” sent her a little note or “just” had a flower delivered to her, you could count on a handwritten thank-you card being sent from her house to yours.

In 2020 Allison’s physical needs became such that she was admitted to the New Horizons Care Center in Lovell. She fought it. She was only 68 years old, and there was no way that she was going to accept such a destiny. She worked hard to get strong enough to go back home, but over the next three years, she grew increasingly more disabled and unable to take care of herself. She resigned herself to her fate and went about being a beacon of sunshine and joy to everyone around her. She said just the other day, “Well, maybe I’ll never walk again, but I can still get strong enough to go outside and sit in the sun.”

Allison was our gift from God. She was sent here to teach our family how to become better people. To teach us a bit about humility and endurance and courage. To teach us about the joy to be found in life against all odds. To teach us how to be more caring and understanding. To teach us that imperfection can be perfect. We were blessed to know her, to learn from her, and to love her. As she loved us.

Allison was preceded in death by her Mother Madge and Father DeVere; her Big Beautiful Brother Christian Steele; her second Beautiful Brother Burgess Benedict; her two brothers-in-law, Douglas L. Cramer and Stephen E. Cole; and her niece, Kniessa Christine Hinckley.

She is survived by her husband, Pony; two older sisters, Alexandra Hinckley Cramer and Maurine Hinckley-Cole; two younger brothers, Franklin Taggart Hinckley and Schuyler Nathaniel Hinckley; three sisters-in-law, Karen, Ann, and Sarah Hinckley; and a whole passel of nieces and nephews whose lives have been enriched, even gilded with gold, because Allison loved them.

Cremation has taken place. A memorial service for Allison is planned for July 20 in the Cowley Cemetery.

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